First Steps
by MessengerOfDreams
Summary: You knew a lot about concepts and less about how they applied to you, until you started dancing. A vignette of moments.
1. Chapter 1

**Don't flip out- this is only 12k words (only, she says). It's different than what it seems, though your emails might be pissed. I guess I had to write today. There's a lot of worlds, a lot of reasons, a lot of people who wish I wasn't here to write. But hell, may as well do what I'm good at.**

 **This should come across as no surprise but the characters are all presented as human here and as, obviously, of age. I am not bold enough to do otherwise, haha. Or not crazy enough. You pick.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing, regret nothing, and let them forget nothing.**

"Yeah, I took dancing lessons a few months back."

All it takes is those words for Falco Lombardi to enter your life.

You lean from four people down to give him an odd look, perhaps the least likely to take dance lessons at all. The crowd of "friends" you orbited around like a lost moon without a planet were in your way, and all you could recognize was the sun that was far too hot for you as it glared at the park you were in with these strangers. Still, a tuft of blue taller than the Tower of Babel spiked up in the air stuck out as it leaned towards you, smirking, too amused at you.

"See?" he said to no one in particular, looking at you like someone guiding a newcomer into a conversation. "Someone's interested!"

You look away, not bothering to wait for his reaction. As usual, everyone else talked- these faces you might be able to put names to now- and all you could do was pull your parka over your head. The heat of the sun as you buried yourself in fabric, stopping the urge to lie down and wait for everyone else to pass, never mattered. You knew it was best that you stayed around here, but you wished you could be anywhere else.

Somewhere within your meditative state, you noticed that he didn't say anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

It's not that you never heard of him before. It seems like everyone around here has a reputation. You knew about his smart mouth from his friends as though it was a compliment, you heard that he was the second in command of his group from strangers like it was an insult. You heard that thirty-something years still hadn't sanded down his faults- his winsome cockiness, his mixture of solitude and dedication that flip-flopped on a dime, his horribly unkempt blue hair that stuck straight up or to the sides from lack of care- but you didn't know him.

All the things others mentioned about him were concepts to you. What's a smart mouth to you in a village where everyone is so sincere that your only response is silence? What's second in command other than a seat of power that even you, second in a team of two, had no idea of? These other things- cockiness, dedication, being alone, messiness, these were things you knew of on an abstract level, but you couldn't articulate in terms of you- whoever you were.

Then, like it took no effort at all, he mentions something you'd thought of way too much, something whose lack you felt, and all of a sudden, none of this felt as distant as you'd imagined.


	3. Chapter 3

You had a match with Popo the next day, so you made sure to train. As always, and as promised, you trained with your mountain climbing partner. Sometimes when you're training, the moves are so natural, so prescribed, that you caught yourself wondering, like someone accidentally singing their favorite song from the words imprinted on their head. You try and remember how you met him, try to figure out why you're here with him, why three years ago feels as distant to you as your own childhood- more distant to you than your own parents and the blizzard that took them, as if you could ever forget the weak smiles on their faces when they sent you to live with your grandparents in the valley.

You try and remember and aside from some small details- the facts of life that keep you in your parka all year and the muscle on your legs so tight that you can barely breathe- you can't remember. All that come to mind are concepts. Cold, hunger, youth, energy, death.

It's not Popo's fault. He never treated you badly or pushed you away. He was used to leading the charge- the birthright of all men born in Cirrus Ridge- but you never felt undervalued or ignored by him. At the very least, not a special case. The problem with Popo is that he was too much like you. You could live with one of you, but two was too much.

The sandbag goes away at the smack of your hammer, reminding you was the final sixteen (not that you'd have to count on your fingers to remember that). It takes another sandbag smack to remind you that you're facing someone you remember to be far from a friend of his. It takes thirty more seconds to remember his name as Wolf- surely a stage name, though for all you know he could be a werewolf- but by then you've already built a steeled stomach to him. Somehow, you want to take him down, and you can't quite put together why you care. You spent thirty seconds that matter with Falco, but already those thirty seconds mean more than however long you spent with anyone else here.

You knock the sandbag away one more time. As it falls into nothingness, you can't stop yourself from smirking.


	4. Chapter 4

When he mentions dancing again, you turn towards him- by your own design, now two people away. He's smirking again, like he expected it, but there's some sort of interest in your eyes that scans you up and down and processes you too quickly for your comfort. Dancing is the only thing that connects the two of you- despite the fact that until now, you never knew you wanted to dance. You never had anyone to dance with, but somehow there's nothing to prevent that from sounding nice to you.

He shrugs, as though he expects no one to care. Maybe like most of the men in the village he's never mentioned this before, as though it was beneath them. Maybe when he admitted that he learned, he expected more to be surprised. Maybe he's surprised that no one seems to have noticed. Maybe no one caring isn't like no one judging- maybe even worse than everyone glaring at him for breaking a cardinal rule of society.

You admit that you've always wanted to learn. Immediately you duck away like you've said too much, even though (despite being surrounded by people) he seems to be the only one who's heard you. He grins, validated, and offers to teach you- if you want to, he adds too quickly.

Before you even have the parka back over your head to disappear back into the void, you look back at him and nod quietly. You imagine you're smiling too, but you've never been that presentable. The next thing you know, he's tossed you a business card, because of course he has those. They're an easy way to delay talking to people, of course, so you accept it. He tells you to call him up when you want a lesson, and you nod before you realize that at that rate he should expect a call right about never.

You lean back into your parka, unusually hot, imagining steam billowing from your jacket. You manage to look restful to whoever's next to you. Still, you can hear him musing "Goddamn, I just became a dance teacher." He's trying to sound amused, but instead he sounds like he'd been waiting for someone to ask him his entire life. You wonder if he's had as little experience as you.

It doesn't scare you enough to throw out the card.


	5. Chapter 5

You realize a little late that you have no clue about him.

His card never finds his way to the trash can or wherever the pile of little things you pretend to care about ends up in your room. Somehow it stays in the pocket of your parka you placed it in. It doesn't make it any easier to call him up. You rationalize it from his perspective, not that it does you any good. You both are still in the tournament, so you assume he's training like you are. You assume he's busy with all of the friends he has and the people he's friendly with that you can't even quite remember without extra effort. It's not like any of them ever put their cards in your jacket and gave you an excuse to call them. If only it were easier to call someone at all.

It's after you knock that Wolf fellow into fifteenth place that you remember him. You remember a tough fight until you managed to grab him. From there, it was too easy to toss him back and forth between you and Popo until one solid hammer knock landed him offstage. As you stand there awaiting the announcement that you won, you look into the box as Popo looks into the crowd. Other competitors are there, and while most seem only partially interested, Falco grins and playfully shoves his nearest player, who seems halfway between amused and annoyed. He isn't looking at you, but you know you were the one to make him so happy, and you don't know how to feel about that.

When you call him that evening, he answers too quickly and sounds too interested, like he'd not done anything until you called him up. When you arrange a time, he mentions that you kicked ass in the tournament- his words, not yours. You thank him quietly, but the red tint in your brown skin is far too loud.

You hang up and spend the evening in your parka, never fully asleep. You know tomorrow will be different than the days before, and- be it anxiety or excitement, maybe both- it keeps you up.


	6. Chapter 6

The hall is as empty as it gets when you show up there. There's usually events or celebrations or God-only-knows in the main hall but today is not a day particularly worth celebrating or condemning. For most, it's another day. Meanwhile, here you are in full parka, pants, and boots, like the place was about to snow over. It's certainly not what a dancer, prospective or experienced, should wear, and you can see in the mirrors a hundred miles away that you're more baby pink than you are a human being. You can't even make out your own skin within it all.

Five minutes past the hour, you notice his hair, now at roughly a sixty-three degree angle for the most part, before you notice him. As he apologizes quickly, jogging in like it only barely matters, you tear your eyes away from the mirror hundreds of miles away and pretend that he was always in the room. Somehow, judgmental eyes seem to follow you.

You notice him in knee-high silver fighter boots above bunched pants and his traditional white-jacket and red shirt, and you can't remember if you're here to fight or to dance. You're not sure what to make of it, but in your mind all you can see is you in your getup and somehow it seems okay.

He grins at you and you force a smile. You accept that you're going to have to give your best impression without realizing that he looks as unaccustomed as you.


	7. Chapter 7

That night you fall asleep too quickly. Most of the time that's reserved for after the tournament, where you can resume not mattering to Cirrus Ridge rather than pretending to matter here. You can't wait until then. You're too exhausted. In your mind are the faint echoes of the techniques he taught you, and you try and grab onto them before you let them go and fall asleep. The next morning, you can barely remember any of them, but you don't mention that before you call him again.


	8. Chapter 8

You pretend you have his lessons down, that you can remember them, because you're used to not explicitly letting people down. You're at the basic level, which you try to not get exhausted at because somewhere on your internal schedule is your next fight. It doesn't take him too long to realize that you hold his hand like a dead fish you've pulled out of a bucket, too focused on remembering last time to focus on this time. Halfway between an attempt to do… something, that involves moving too much… he stops and looks at you.

It doesn't even take five picoseconds for you to apologize. He shakes his head, and all you can determine is disappointment, something you wish was still a concept. You apologize again, and let him go at long last, sitting against the stage you're dancing on and trying to catch your breath while avoiding your reflection. Tired himself, he plops next to you, which is too close for comfort all of a sudden. You feel like a liar, a shameful, greedy liar- you don't know why, you just feel it.

"You know that it takes, like, anyone three or four tries before they learn the basic shit, right?"

The words are too close to home. Maybe you should have seen that coming before you pretended you had it down too perfectly last time before sleeping it all away. Maybe it should make you feel better, but instead you feel too arrogant trying to punch above your weight.

You shrug because you'd rather not talk. You have the problem of being honest only at the worst times.

He doesn't move away as you try and pretend you're not really there. Instead, he says "I gotta admit that I don't have jack worth experience as a teacher of… damn near anything." The words come out in a confused mess. Maybe he's wondering how he got here too. Maybe he's about to turn in and leave you on the dance floor alone. If he does that, you'll be alone, but somehow you won't be able to find a way out.

He continues to surprise you.

"All I can tell you is that here, there's no grade. There's no one you need to impress- I'm not a god of dance either. There's no finals you need to clear- that whole no teacher thing and all. And there are no wrong questions or answers." With that, he claps you on the shoulder, but that's the only contact he allows himself. He rolls over and stands up, stretching, preparing for the next dance. You watch him, trying to make sense of what you see. Still, beneath the wiry muscle that makes you think of too many hikes, the outfit he seems to have taken straight out of every fight ever, beneath the legendarily distastrous blue hair that seems more an accident than everything, you can't determine anything from it other than it being what you know- it's him.

When you look long enough, you see bits of yourself in him. You should leave, you know you should. You can barely live with one of you; you don't know how you fight with two of you. There's no way you should let a third you in.

Instead you ask him to help you through the first steps again.


	9. Chapter 9

The first day lasts a few more days until you've gotten the steps done. It was never really about the steps anyways, but at least you can walk on your own- and dance on your own if need be. Somewhere, between the moves you make to climb and the moves you need to fight, the dancing steps file away.

You wake up the next morning with a jolt. Your dreams are rarely anything special or fantastic, because you've spent too much of your life in the same range, on the same mountains, for your short life. The places you were born are the place you imagine you'd die, but last night, fantasy was reality for enough moments.

You try not to think of falling, try not to put yourself back in your dreams. It doesn't work, because every step you take feels as close to falling through as the snow your mind thought it knew did. All you can feel is the feeling of nothing as you spiraled for a few desperate seconds into emptiness. The sights disappear throughout the day, but the feeling is unforgettable.

You fight your next match against someone not important enough to remember. You don't make it, but you're told you still win. You remember this person knocking you off the stage. For a few moments, all you could feel was the sensation of falling. You had no ledge to grab, no root to hold onto, nothing but the air surrounding you, ready to take yours away.

Then you land on the net, and nothing changes.

Even as you touch ground on your way to the nesting room, all you can feel is like you're falling. When you huddle in your parka and wait for Popo, that's all you can see too.


	10. Chapter 10

He has a habit of trying new things. Teaching is clearly one of them. He's a doer, not a speaker, though he has a way of making words fun when he does- certainly filthier than you remember. Still, words fade, as always they do. You only really turned on when he tried something new, and it didn't work.

When he tried to dip you in his arms, you suppose you should have felt safe. You could even imagine theoretical situations when this looked familiar- remembering your parents in the garden with you, playfully celebrating a harvest, your Papa twirling Mama around the fields in a way too comfortable to think of the next season and its lack of harvest waiting for them. Then, whatever is associated with it falls like everything does. You're falling. You're awake and, again, you're falling.

You gasp too sharply and before he can lift you up, you've pushed him away, stumbling onto your feet. You make it, panting breath, clinging onto your knees, not about to fall again, until you watch him scream with surprise, sounding like the scared falcon he's named after.

Without warning, he trips over himself and lands on the floor. You're too far away to do anything but watch and blurt apologies before you know your mouth is open. You run over to pull him up, but he's already worked his way to his feet moments before you get there, but still slowly, awkwardly enough for you to notice- like his feet are not his.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Why are you asking that?" you demand, somehow more in shock and angry for it.

He shakes his head, dusting himself off with a stilted laugh. You can only stare at him, legs planted onto the floor, not budging for another moment. You don't move after he looks as okay as he's okay with. More than anything, he seems amused at what happened, but that frustrates you more. He should be angry with you, or at least find your behavior odd. You certainly do, down to not knowing why you're angry at him when you shoved him over.

"You okay?" he asks again, noticing you haven't moved. You can't react, but your eyes close, angry. You hear a few uneven footsteps before you feel his presence next to you, grabbing a shoulder and repeating the question.

"You okay?"

You feel his hand on your shoulder try and wake you up, the warmth and involvement of such close quarters. You find yourself scared that the feeling's too natural for you. You recall recouping for warmth for Popo, but it was never anything personal, anything more than necessary to tangle up with him in one cozy sleeping bag for the trip up the mountains. Now, it feels like it's a hundred and ten degrees with him next to you and you wish he was closer.

You think you say "I have to go" before you leave.


	11. Chapter 11

You're awake until two in the morning, too terrified to sleep, before you call him. You don't expect him to pick up, but he does.

"Sup, girly?"

You're almost annoyed enough to hang up again, but you rationalize that name. It's not condescending, like the saccharine tones of too many villagers. It's not dismissive like that's all there is to know about you. It's flippant, it's amused, and it's someone who thinks they found the perfect nickname for you, but at least it matters.

Still, after a few seconds of silence, you manage to squeak out "Sorry about today."

"Ah, that's no big," he says quickly enough for you to doubt him. "I've seen stranger."

You laugh, at him or with him you're unsure about. You hear the clatter of the nighttime cities in the distance of his phone call. It's almost loud and clear enough for you to listen in on the conversations of others. You wonder for a few moments what they're saying, what they're thinking, how on earth these people met, if they've met him.

However long you spent you fear is too long.

"It was bad dreams," you admit.

"Damn," he mumbles. It sounds too honest to do anything but alarm you. It's not too quick, too rehearsed, trying to impress. It sounds like someone who woke up from a bad dream themselves.

You mumble a thanks and hang up before you hear him say that you're welcome.


	12. Chapter 12

The next time you hang out with these people is in a different light. You try and see them through his eyes, this collection of young women and men that you guess you fall into. These pretty young things that never quite look at you like they've even processed the fundamentals that you see. The princesses keep to the princesses, and the young boys never look at you like you're a princess- which for all intents and purposes, is fine by you. Some of the women look at you in a way that requires more scrutiny, maybe because you're the only one too distant to catch loneliness and desperation they imagine you'd remedy. Even the motherhen, Rosalina, keeps you at a distance, somewhere in between the royalty that never sees you as them and the people who wish you were enough for them to matter.

All you know are what's most direct to you. Everything else is a concept.

You about give up on figuring him out, this one older figure with the twenty-somethings of the world, these far-too-beautiful people and their awkward mountain climber friend who can only be remembered for her parka. Them, you, and him. However they look at him compared to how they look at you is too far out of your depth.

Then, with a playful smirk, waiting for you to react, he tells you "You're welcome."

You take a few seconds to think about it, but eventually it's worth a smile. Your parka hood never quite finds its way on.


	13. Chapter 13

You start to put together why he shows up in his traditional fighter getup when your next meeting is right after your final twelve fight- a success as usual. You run into the dance hall with apologies ready before he even notices, in the same getup as usual. Before you can, he waves with a smile on his face, one that isn't sardonic enough to grace him as it usually is. At that moment, you slow down, like your brain can't figure him out as fast as you can run.

He takes your hammer with a polite, chipper, and ever-dramatic "Thank you!" and you watch him place it on a rack next to his blaster. You've never noticed his blaster as you've danced before, but you like the idea that he thinks you .


	14. Chapter 14

Whenever people talk about him, the concepts become less distant. You hear how cocky he's notable for, but it translates into confidence and the way he knows exactly what you need to learn. His dependency is familiarity to you, despite how neither of you seem like you need each other- and as you try and tether away from him, you think about his independence and how he never quite trusts anyone, but still lets you dance however works for you, like you haven't knocked him off his feet. You'd like to imagine you've done so more than once, but you wouldn't dare express those thoughts to the mind they're coming from.

Somehow his always incomplete state- the fighting outfit, the tucked-away blaster, the hair and its direction of influence that day- becomes as comforting to you as your own parka, your own worked muscles and ample climbing build, your own unique skin that never looks quite like the other princesses you only stay with out of convenience.

Somewhere along the way, you become okay with both of these things.

Still, as close as he is, he is still far away. There are some concepts about him that never quite flesh out. Concepts like fighter, mercenary, pilot, Corneria, blaster, bounty, or all the other things you don't know because you never ask. The ones you have learned- cold, winter, starvation, loss, hunger, tradition, silence, invisibility, death- can't be prescribed to him. Or at least, you won't let it happen.


	15. Chapter 15

Sure, you can do the moves he's taught you, but they're as natural as the songs in your head you never quite sing. You couldn't name them if you were asked, so it's a good thing there are no tests. You only feel them as you dance, only with him and never alone. You can't name them, but the fact that you know them so well should scare you. Instead, you dance with him, and you smile.

Even as you've learned everything he can teach you, it's nice to practice.


	16. Chapter 16

It's a few unnecessary sessions with just the two of you until you trip over yourself. You don't land face-first, catching yourself before the next fall. Still, nothing about your legs feel as right as they used to. They're too constrained in the snow suit you keep around in case of a storm or what-the-hell-ever. They can't dance like this. They can barely dance at all.

"You okay?" he asks, and you're not as annoyed at the question as you used to be.

You still haven't gotten the hang of answering honestly. You shrug and sit down on the stage, legs crossed before you. It's not like they can't do this- they've done much harder things than whatever music-devoid dance they're perfecting today. These legs have climbed up mountains, have survived fruitless winters, have had enough eyes on them by people wondering if they're as capable or as similar to you without kicking someone's teeth in.

It's never been them that are the problem. You know it to be literal, but figuratively you would be nowhere if you weren't proud of yourself.

When he sits next to you, legs also crossed, playfully uttering yoga chants he knows far too well to claim are only to joke with, his presence lands next to you. You felt close to sweating before but now you're not warm enough. You could shiver right now.

You figure as long as he's close enough to you, these clothes are okay.


	17. Chapter 17

You change your mind the next day. There are no fights ahead of you, and even if he never said or says anything about your perpetual choice of outfit, you're sick of it. Somehow, as close as you and your clothes get, the further they separate. The next day, you come in with a red skirt that reaches down to your ankles and a loose-hanging shirt that covers enough for you to be okay with, because at least you can see you, and you are happy with that.

The air hasn't taken anything away from you yet.

He notices you've changed, though he hasn't. He grins, clapping his hands, and tells you that you're looking sharp. You take the compliment at face value with a goofy smirk, until you dance again, when you don't feel his eyes scanning anywhere they shouldn't be, where those who aren't interested avoid, where those who have no option often end up at. Instead, wherever you're dancing, wherever you are, he's always focused there. Whenever you speak, he makes eye contact, if he's not mentally chasing whatever butterflies he's locked in with him.

The next time you dance, he's dressed up in a green button-up, blue bow-tie, and suit slacks that you've never seen before. His hair is still a mess, but you admire that he tried. As you dance, you notice that he's still wearing his boots, up to his knees, but you don't mind. You just remember to keep your eyes where they belong, and to make eye contact whenever you speak- if you can be brave enough.


	18. Chapter 18

"You wanna see something really freaky?"

He's already got his hand on his boots, but you're steeled enough to nod. Whatever you can imagine there isn't scary enough. You've seen frostbite take people's entire legs, toes snapping off like burnt pieces of a log leaping into a campfire. You've seen far too many people too damaged to be considered normal- maybe as average you are you're one of the few undamaged left in the village. When he takes off his boots, he sets them aside with him, and already he seems a foot and a half shorter. It takes you a few moments to realize his legs, whatever they are, have perfectly sanded, enviously surgical nubs right at the end of the knees.

You hmm, getting it a little too late.

"You are not nearly as freaked as I expected," he tells you, amused, legs close to crossed as they would be were they attached together.

You shrug, with stories at frostbite ready to leap off your tongue, before he admits that it's Cornerian military policy. It takes you a few seconds before you realize what he means.

"The legs?"

He nods. "They go clean off."

Now you're a little freaked, but whatever it is, you don't move.

"Knew that'd get you!" he laughs, amused at your sick expression. You shove him playfully to hide annoyance at feeling weak, but now you realize that whatever you did the last time you shoved him had him falling more than you could ever fear.

Your arms crossed beneath your shoestring tank top- the outfit choice of the day- you admit in a huff "I was worried about you."

He chuckles. "Don't worry, Miss Madame." A step up from girly, at that. "I've had these extra legs on me since I joined about fourteen years ago. They're pretty nifty."

Fourteen years ago. That's a long time. That's too long. Give or take a year, you might have still had your parents. You might have still been at home before you left the worst of the storm that wakes you up at night. There might have been a full harvest and there might have been nothing for a ten year old to worry about. Just as your life changed, here he was becoming the Falco Lombardi you always knew.

Maybe around that time, you became what he knows as well. The silence, the nerves, the fear of death that lurked around every corner, the outfit you left as sparsely as a cartoon character. The eyes averted and too close, the top of the mountains you climbed to faster than you could tier list spots. Around that time, however that was set to happen- for better or worse- it sent you on a crash collision with him.

You smile and move the inch closer to him and his legless body. The feet that separated you are moved to the other side.

"I've got to tell you this story," you begin, and he's already so close you could immolate. It isn't close enough on any level.


	19. Chapter 20

You have a knack for being honest at the worst possible times.

He has you lead the dance, and you can tell, because at any moment you can, you bring up the instinctual dances you vaguely remember as much as you live them, and you try and close that gap. You try and bring things a little closer to you, and you can already feel yourself falling too deep to be saved.

When you finish, you sit next to him. You're wearing a skirt that hits your knees, where his legs end and begin. He's dressed in the same far-too-dressy clothes for him, and you wonder how you look to him. You're kicking off the edge of the stage, like you're okay with your feet having no solid ground. Out of curiosity, a desire to have him stay with you, you ask him why he learned to dance.

"I learned it because I figured it would help me fight-" he starts, but you push him again, not accepting the bullshit pre-packaged answers he probably tells everyone else.

He laughs, picking up your cues like he's far too good at, and explains "Okay, okay. I don't really know. Something about this felt right. It's fun, it's good exercise, it actually DOES help me fight" and at that he pushes you so lightly you barely move, making you giggle. "And I dunno, Nat. Something about it just feels right."

You haven't heard your own name in too long. Or at least, some version of Natalia you barely hold onto- a perpetual gift from temporary people. You hear Nana a few times, however you earned that nickname. You've heard a few references to you- she, her, never a name- whether they knew it or not. You haven't heard that name in so long, and you're amazed that you care.

Somewhere within the buzzing inside your own head, you hear him ask you why you wanted to learn to dance. You can't answer at first. You associated it with something nice, romantic, beautiful, but you never really cared for that because it didn't help you climb any goddamn mountains. These were always too far away from you, but the idea of that frustrates you now. Of course no one thinks you can dance. You? The quiet mountain climber from Podunk, Nowhere, Middle of those Mountains, too busy fighting and climbing and not being worth caring about, learning to dance? With whom? Why do you care? Why do you hope?

And why has no one expressed those doubts but you?

Finally, you come up with a reason. It's something you blurt off the top of your head, but the more you think about it, the more right it is.

"I just wanted to try something I didn't think I could do."

He smiles, hand finding its way back to your shoulder. "I can tell you what," he says, "you're doing a damn great job. The next time anyone wants to learn, they know where to find you."

You accept the compliment at first, but you know it isn't quite right. You'd be a horrible teacher, if you could even stand your student much less understand them. You would never dance again if it weren't for this. Dancing would be a nice achievement otherwise, but it's something more here.

"It's not about them," you admit. Strangely, you haven't been too honest yet.

"Oh?" he says, turning towards you, confused but always present smile gracing him.

Finally, it's enough to be honest at the worst possible time, and you kiss him.


	20. Chapter 21

You read the tournament results so far, and you're not surprised at first. Everyone progressing so far is who you expected to, yourself included. Whether it be the professionals or the newcomers, those who went before the final eight are gone, and it's the elite. Captain Olimar and his pikmin have surprised and confused many a crowd the way you and Popo haven't managed since the first time two presumably equal fighters landed on the stage. Diddy, as hyperactive as he is, always had the grin of someone who enjoyed fighting too much to quit, too much to be bitter. Meta Knight, well damn, this whole tournament may as well be a competition to see which second placer gets their ass dusted by him. There's a few others that aren't as standout to you, there's you, and then there's him- just like last tournament, he's one of the few veterans, if not the only, to kick ass in both tournaments.

Everything seems nice in the papers until you read the next matches. It's a process of elimination. Even as the names mean little to you, you can tell Olimar versus Snake, Pikachu versus Meta, and Diddy versus Marth are decidedly not you and him. That's the last match.

Your heart leaps in your throat in a way only you can understand. Not anyone else, not Popo, not even Falco himself. You've dove in far too deep and you don't know how to stop the fall.

You figure you should at least know he knows. Why this matters, you can't say, but if it does to you it might to him, and you doubt he reads the papers. You try and make your way to his room, but every step brings in new details, details that are felt, not seen, not heard, not even touched.

The way you grabbed the back of his messy hair like you couldn't stand the fact of him going. The way he didn't return the kiss at first, but flew into it so quickly you almost missed his hesitation. You recall trying to rethink everything you wore that day until his hand found the small of your back. You remember your eyes far too closed to see if his were open. You remember running through the halls like guilty, gleeful schoolchildren, a feeling you barely remember and assign to the energized fear of the unknown that followed you. You remember him being so close but not close enough, and you remember pulling him closer, denying him any fear. You remember the feeling of being absolutely bare, open to criticism, only for him to draw even closer, his eyes slowly opening when you wanted him to see. You remember feelings you couldn't tell anyone about, that you'd take to the grave with you. You remember him never feeling too close, and you remember that despite being hundreds of degrees hotter than you could ever remember in your parka, things finally felt warm enough.

By the time you got to his door, something all too familiar in the light of day, you didn't know what to tell him. You wanted to cry, but that was the least of your fears. All you could do is, confused, without a clue in the world, knock on his door.

In thirty seconds, your heart pounding through your ears and out of your chest enough to be visible by the pulse, you wait for him to answer the door. He finally does, smirk melting into a smile, facing you in the same fighter clothes you met him in (you were probably going to train today sometime). He's too casual, in comfortable shorts and a tank top, showing as you're too aware of his tight, skinny, dangerous build that made him such a joy to dance with. He has a quip about not remembering to make breakfast, like you really cared, but to some degree he amuses himself, guards himself with his own humor.

You forget what you had to say and kiss him again. You don't notice him hesitate for a moment.


	21. Chapter 22

You don't sleep alone that night. Somewhere in your restless, barely conscious stupor, you remember how the way he held you was just how you thought you had a grip on him. A little desperate, a little unsure, a little excited, just hard enough to stay together, never hard enough to break. You mumble that he reminds you of you, and he laughs into your shoulder.

The next time you dance, you tell him again for good measure. He shoves you lightly, and you lean into his shoulder, a little too tired to keep a surface up. He's warm, he's comfortable, he's just what you needed.

You have no clue how you're gonna fight him.


	22. Chapter 23

The last time you dance, you hear him absently say he's gonna head home for a bit. You think about your own home too long, with the people that never thought you mattered not mattering too much to you. You try not to think of the village, the hills, the abstract concepts that became ideas that became reality, and instead ask him what brings him to Corneria.

You only grab what means anything to you. Words like target, bounty, mission, all that jazz that never was anything but noise. He figures it'll be a quick jaunt and he'll be back in a couple of days, which reminds you of your own fight against him. Your decent mood goes down a notch- you never told him.

"I'm gonna be back," he insists. "It's all gonna be good, Nattie."

You nod when you want to shake your head. "I know," you whisper. "I know." You want to mention the fight against him, but you can't get the words off of your mouth. You can't even begin to explain the mess of emotions that give you turmoil, and in fact you almost wish he'd be gone long enough to forefit, but something about this fight seems like a necessary evil.

"Just don't do anything reckless," you tell him, like he should have known.

"You kidding?" he asks with a grin, like he'd never forgotten.


	23. Chapter 24

You're still thinking mixed thoughts about the fight when you and Popo are training, but force them to be positive. A sandbag is still a sandbag, and you give it your all, like a sandbag and a lover are the same thing. You're the one to knock it off the ring first, and a new one appears too quickly for your taste. If you had your way, you'd drop down there and drag it up yourself, as much as you think you hate that sensation.

Popo notices. "Great job on that." You nod, used to professional compliments from your other half. He adds "I think the dancing's helped you."

You want to say something, but you figure you probably said it somewhere. That had to be the case; as rarely as you talk about you, it's even rarer for someone else to. He claps you on the back, and you turn back to see him smile again. Somehow, as you start in on the next sandbag, that makes you feel comfortable enough to turn this one into as much of a mess as the last one.

You wonder if it will last.


	24. Chapter 25

You go to the main hall to dance again only to remember too late. On the hook your hammer has found a few times, no blaster is there. For a split second, you wonder if he'll use it against any bad guys threatening him, but the whole thing is too childish, too black and white, to feel like anything more than a concept.

You try dancing on your own, but the dancing turns into fighting moves against no one in particular. Neither feels satisfying with nothing to target.

You don't know if you're meant to become a lover or a fighter.


	25. Chapter 26

Your heart is in your throat as you and Popo wait in the nesting room. You're in your parka, as is expected, and you hate it. It doesn't feel like you, like it was before a transition. You wear it but you want to hide from it, not in it, especially knowing what lies ahead.

You haven't spoken to him yet, though for all you know he could just not be here, such is the extent you've tried not to confront him. You're not used to explicitly letting people down, so you're here to fight for Popo, even if it's against yourself, even if you miss every moment you weren't fighting. You're counting down the minutes until the match, not talking to anyone. The faster it gets here, the faster it's over, the closer you get to no longer caring.

It's three minutes until the match when someone comes into the room that isn't you guys and tells you the match is cancelled. You sigh with relief too quickly to go unnoticed, leaving Popo to field the questions for you both, as he always does. You're okay to let him take care of the fighting things.

Then, the person says that Falco is in critical condition.

Popo says it's such a shame, but that doesn't even fucking begin to cover it.

You stand there in shock, willing to hear them talk, but their words become nothingness, buzzing in your mind, like a song you remember but can't shake as badly as you want to. You walk away gracelessly, all of your lessons unable to keep you from stumbling and falling onto the couch, absolutely stunned. All you can think of is "Falco is in critical condition." You try and imagine it. Try and imagine the messy hair, the too-casual clothes, the military artificial legs disappearing, being shooed out of existence like a pesky gnat.

You can't do it, but the concept still remains.

All you can do is pull your parka over you and try and process this. You don't leave for hours until no one else is there but Popo, waiting by your side.

You look out of the parka and everything is still the same, and you hide again before Popo can say anything. You don't have any words for him either. Nothing can describe this. You hope that if you cry, he can put it together from there, but you don't even manage to feel that.

It's nothingness. It's falling. And you've torn away the safety net to even get there.


	26. Chapter 27

It all goes away during the night and you wake up peacefully. You don't think about it. You don't think at all. It's too nice- the sensation of sleep radiates from your skin, your blanket feels like a guardian, you can't face any of the things you used to fear. You are safe, and you are fine. The clock reads seven-o-clock, a good hour to wake up. Sunlight is visible from the curtain, and what little there is makes you feel warmer than usual.

Then you realize no one else is there, just like was the case far too long ago, before all the growth and the change and the learning.

You realize that someone should be, and begin to cry.


	27. Chapter 28

It doesn't take much insistence for you to get an escort to the hospital Falco is staying at. You don't know or care about the specifics, where he lived then or where he does now- you just want to see him. It's too long a drive through the city where every bit of traffic feels like a roadblock and every building an obstacle you wish you could leap over.

You eventually, far too late for your liking, make it there. As you try not to run, you try and prepare yourself for what you're going to see. He's going to be banged up, wounded, not looking great. You think you're okay with that. You meet one of Fox's friends, someone with hair far too formally shaped to be lime green and a voice so high-pitched it could break glass, and he informs you that Falco isn't looking great. You assure him you're ready, and he pats you on the back and tells you where to find him.

You realize as you walk in that you don't know what happened, but when you see him, you nearly freak out.

You assume he's under there, beneath the tubes and the wiring and the mess of it all. You can barely make out his face- absolutely stoic beneath the breathing tube that covers his mouth. Above him is a hospital gown with plenty of openings for tubes and wires that make him look like a marionette. Above his face, his hair- long, proud, and unbendable to the laws of physics- is completely gone, leaving an empty, bald head with no expression at all. You can't even see his legs beneath all the tubing and wiring, and you don't know if his boots are on or off until you see them next to his bed on the floor, looking charred beyond belief. As you process that, you know the tubing extended to the bottom of the bed, where nothing is there at all.

You still manage to stay there for a few minutes, not saying anything, but you want to be anywhere else.


	28. Chapter 29

Beneath all of the talk from the group of people who, sans Falco, barely classify as friends, you're trying to figure out how you can assign him all of the abstract concepts you barely allowed yourself to remember. Fear, loneliness, coldness, lack of control of your dreams, falling falling falling falling falling. You don't let yourself get as far as death, even though that's where your mind is itching to go.

From beneath your own parka, you hear the others talk briefly about Falco. They denote his condition, and vaguely you hear what you've forced yourself to learn- the mission that went wrong, the hospital bed he lies in- but they know as little as you want to. You hate how they don't have to know everything. They don't have to know the details of how he fell, who shot his fighter, how he probably expected this to be how he went. They never will have to see the hospital bed, with the man cut down to fragments of his old self so he can struggle for the idea of life. They don't know, and you hate them for not caring.

When someone points out that this gives the Ice Climbers a guaranteed spot to the Final Two- against Meta who unsurprisingly destroyed his competitor- you hear some woman, with a much-too-high, much-too-chipper, much-too-encouraging voice tell you that you got lucky that you earned your way over there, as if that was enough of a good thing.

"Fuck off," you reply quietly, without thinking.

You feel the presence of a few eyes on you before you even see them. Somehow, they heard you now, and you can feel them trying to figure you out, analyze you, look at you in places inside your own mind you swore no one would ever reach.

"Come again?" the royal replies, confused that someone even had the breadth to frown at them, much less say what you said.

You look her in the eye, far terrified than her vague look of concern that will never know what she's looking at should cause from you.

"I have to leave."

You never see her again.


	29. Chapter 30

It has a way of hitting you when you don't expect it, when you aren't thinking of it, when you're smiling or amused or doing something that you used to do that passes your time. Sometimes you make yourself do these things to focus your mind away. Sometimes it just happens.

Somehow it's worse to remember than to spend your lifetime thinking of it.

You're on your way to train again when you remember that your last fight wasn't against who it was supposed to be. You stop cold, leaning against the wall, as alone as you thought you wanted it, and start to cry. You're far from your room, far from training, and far from anyone else you think cares.

Someone finds you perched against the wall, holding your nose like you're experiencing a headache, holed up in your parka, crying so quietly that no one could notice unless they were curious. Someone apparently is.

You only recognize Wolf, for all his gray hair and his salt-and-pepper whiskers and general air of trying-not-to-care, when he stands next to you. His arms are crossed, but he isn't impatient. He looks away, but only because you can't stand anyone looking at you. He doesn't touch you, but if he touches anyone comfortingly, you're surprised. All he does is stand there with you until you feel okay with yourself, enough to continue.

Before you leave, and before you can stop yourself, you hug him quietly. He doesn't respond, but he accepts it until you let go with a quiet "Thank you."

He pats you on the back as you walk away, never leaving where he stands until you're too far away to notice.

You wonder if he's ever cried the same way you have, for the same reason.


	30. Chapter 31

The next day is the final match. You and Popo rarely speak, and not at all about the incident, but both of you must feel the same way. You read your own defeatist position on the matter in him, because he's uncomfortably similar to you except for where it matters. If Popo never left his town for longer than a few months every couple of years or so, you wouldn't be surprised. You can't even think about returning but you don't know where else to go.

The match is about to start when you see Meta Knight. He's shorter than you, at just over four feet, so some might consider him a dwarf, but how this hurts him in battle you've yet to see. He's armed to the nines with a shield, a mask, and a cape with sword in hand. You can't punch the Coat of Arms into existence fast enough.

Whatever he feels behind the mask, in front of it is no mercy.

The fight mostly goes as you'd expect. It's a fight worthy of a final match but you can tell when things go south. You're at one life when Meta is at two. You rationalize second place isn't bad as you go through the motions, as natural as dancing. Popo is giving his all and you're standing as close to him as expected, but Meta knows the trick. With one swipe, he bats Popo away on his own, leaving you in sight.

He does nothing to you, like he knows, and you see Popo swing and jump back to the stage, barely meant to last. Meta doesn't notice at first, but he knows he doesn't need to hurt you. It's never the way to win, after all. Finally, when some steps are heard, Meta turns away to face Popo, to finish the battle, to leave you here alone.

That's when you swing at him.

You take only a second to take aim and launch with all your might, so hard your hammer nearly leaves your hand. You knock him so far off the stage you can't see him. Popo dashes back to you, worse for wear, taking far more than you have. You're about to signal to him to be ready for Meta's return, anticipating his several recoveries, when you hear him hit the blast zone, screaming.

Excited, you and Popo high-five, and for once his grin seems genuine.

Then Meta returns and knocks Popo off the map.

You try and keep your eyes on Popo, ready to help, hammer in hand, when he hits the blast zone. You're about to swing at Meta when the announcer shouts "Game!" and everyone begins to cheer. You grab your hammer close, angry, because you know this isn't right. You can swing at Meta right now. You're ready to fight him. You have all the energy in the world. You know, you KNOW, that if you need to be, you can be better than this prick. You can show him his place. You can win the tournament, right here, that he's already won.

But you can't. They won't let you. Because you don't matter to the fight like he does.

As they celebrate, you throw your hammer on the stage and freely hop off into the safety net. Popo is in the nesting room. As you're too used to doing, you apologize, but all he can do is smile like he saw a miracle.

Somehow, that only makes you angrier, that a worker of miracles isn't seen as valuable as he is.


	31. Chapter 32

You don't bring your suitcase in with you. Silver medal aside, it's as packed going out as it was coming in. You leave it in the taxi and promise to be back in no time at all. Wearily, you make it through the hospital, all the corridors where Falco's family of friends are usually waiting, far too paired up and okay with life to be friends with such a sloppy loner- you or him has yet to be seen.

To no surprise, he's still not awake, and you're wondering how much of his breathing is forced and mechanical. You're as quiet as ever, still too nervous to communicate. His hair is growing back ever so slightly, but you know it will be cut again, as much as you know that even as the tubes decrease, there's too many of them.

He's not awake, and as usual, he probably doesn't know you're here.

You decide, for the first time, to make yourself known.

You start off by telling him clinically about the final battle. About the match against Meta, and how you lost. You want to tell him about the feeling of hopelessness as you stood there alone, about how the silver isn't enough, about the anger you experienced, about how none of it made sense. And none of it quite comes out the way it should, but you find that whatever you had to say was said by you gripping the side of his bed, like it was all you had to hold onto.

You can only say "...I had him, Falco. I had him."

Somehow, over time, a few other things come out. Things best left to the imagination, but you can tell by how you refuse to remember it, that it was honest. Whatever you said, you needed to say it. Whatever you said, you said like you hoped you'd hear it.

You leave a lot later than you expected to, and on the way out you see someone you put together to be Fox McCloud, Falco's best friend. He has a kid, blissfully unaware, that looks just like him and is grabbing at his dad's legs. Further away, you see his wife, Krystal, clothed in things like what your mother used to wear, forcing a smile despite how sad she seems. You look at Fox, short brown hair that used to be a mohawk, and he looks back at you with a quick smile that doesn't quite reach.

"You know, you're the only one besides us who even shows up here," he says before you're out of each other's sight.

As you go to make that count a solid zero, all you can think of are his words.


	32. Chapter 33

Home feels familiar in the worst possible way.

It's too cold. It's at best about forty degrees and you won't even talk about the worst. The people are cold too- after your second place is discussed for a week like it's the best thing to ever happen, you feel right in never letting their praise let you feel too special. As the conversations stop, and the people find a new useless thing to care about, you can only remember how it felt to stand there alone with a fighter who never cared about you. The feeling's too familiar, enough that it makes you angry, but you regret never letting anyone else believe that you were special, when that turns out that was never the case.

You hear about the harvest- it was okay, no one's going to die, but neither will they eat like kings. You're too relieved by the former to care about the latter, but it reminds you of how alone you are. Popo's father is as close as you have to one, when you visit before a climb or an excursion, and he tells you things you don't really care about, all that you missed. He tells you about what the people are up to, how the weather has been, and how people have received the tournament. It's the same as ever, when you could tell him so much more that he'd never even think was important..

When you walk home you feel some eyes follow you for seconds at a time, trying to determine you before they meet you, trying to let the outside figure out the inside. You've mastered the art of a scary glare to keep the eyes away, but when you get home, to your one-room house in the village edge with a bed and a fireplace and not much else, no one sees you at all.

You don't want either.

It's cold enough that you wear your parka most of the time, even indoors. It feels closer to normal, but never close to right. It's how you left the town, it should never have been how you entered it again. It's only as bad as you can imagine it, but you imagine being too sheltered for anyone, even one real friend, until you got the perfect friend to lose. You try and imagine wearing something else, but it feels like a distant dream, especially as cold as it is here. You wore those outfits not out of an attempt to impress anyone but yourself- that was just a bonus- but because it felt right. You weren't as baked, as clammy, as unchanging.

As you changed, so did what you wear. You liked how natural it felt, how you looked in it, how you could see the body you built for yourself to reach the heights you did. It was always connected to feeling how you wanted to feel, being happy with yourself. You remember being proud about climbing mountains no one would set foot at, but whenever you want to reclaim that feeling you remember a crowd celebrating your death as you remain unkilled.

Sometimes, that's all you can think of yourself as- the one who lived.


	33. Chapter 34

Sometimes what you feel should be a reintroduction feels like a goodbye.

When you hear from a local botanist that certain types of mountain berries would work well with what they're preparing for a village celebration, you already have your gear ready to go. You call up Popo, and he takes little time to get ready as well. These types of berries, the type that you never think of until it's your job to get them, aren't far enough away to be worse than a day trip. A hard day's trip, but well worth what they're paying.

You reach them about halfway up, and before you can say anything, your bag is halfway filled. You don't realize how long it's been until you realize that Popo has filled a bag with berries and is working on a second, the first in his backpack. You shake your head in surprise, and resume picking until your eyes are caught by the view again.

"It's nice, isn't it?"

You're surprised when Popo talks, so rare is any small talk with him. All you can do is nod, but you find yourself surrendering to the view off the mountain. You can't see the city, which is the other direction and behind a rocky surface, but you see endless valleys between mountains, something far too big for you, what you imagine you'll never traverse and discover. You can try, and you can discover a good chunk of it, more than anyone else has, but you have no obligation to scour the Earth to get what you want.

For the first time, the impossible isn't close enough to choke you.

"It is," you whisper.

Your hand reaches into the parka pocket and you realize that an object is still there. Flat as can be and made of paper, it feels odd to the touch- too artificial for this world- yet you pull it out. A business card faces you, his name on it, the number too far away and too empty to call.

You realize that you have to know. You have to know, then maybe you can really let go. When you think of letting go, this isn't the place you think of- you think of all you learned, all you enjoyed, and what could make you the you that you want to see.

You start filling up your bag again. When it's finished, you hand it to Popo. As he takes it and puts it in his backpack, you wait for him, looking him right in the eye, the best way you know how.

Even before you say it, he knows, like the things you can't admit to yourself but just live with.

"I think I'm about done with this."

He doesn't seem surprised. To an extent, sorrowful, someone who wasn't sure what they had until it was too late, but someone whom, you hope, can move on. He claps you on the shoulder, and it reminds you of someone else, someone who is a memory that just won't evaporate, even if you assume he's not even around to miss you- if he did.

You smile, only now aware that this is a goodbye.

"Can you quit after you help me out here?"

You chuckle and start loading up your second bag, because you owe him that much. At least now this is an ending you can laugh to, that you can drift away from and be okay with.

Maybe this is one of the last times you wear this godforsaken parka.


	34. Chapter 35

You don't have really anything that takes too long to pack, but leaving is novel and gigantic to you so you pretend that you have a lot to move out with you so you can stay a few more days.

Every time this idea, this quitting and this leaving, gets too big for you, scares you, makes you think there's too much to lose, the gut in your feeling dies away when you enter the village again. Nothing feels right even now, like they're waiting for you to go. You wonder if you'll make a difference, but this isn't what you care about. This place, not really. It won't miss you, and you hope you won't miss it.

You just wish it were easier to leave.

You make it to the celebration the night you leave. The suitcase of what little you own is at home, because you only brought yourself. You see a few people playing native drums with gusto, you see the berries you picked being passed around with the food, and you imagine many made it into the meals being served. You see Popo dancing with a local girl you've never met, one whose skin is the same as you, who's built as hard as you, but has never been happier. You wonder if they'll be as good at mountain climbing as they are at dancing. You certainly are.

For a few moments, you take in the village at its best. When you've let it all in, leaving is the easiest thing you've ever experienced.

On the flight away from home, just you in a biplane, you're wearing a long skirt and a loose blouse, and you feel fine not having packed your parka.


	35. Chapter 36

Every day, you put a little money away. Something safe, what little you have to keep after expenses, rent, food, travel, all that jazz. It wasn't hard to figure out what to do. There were no mountains to climb, but you remember dancing. You couldn't explain it, but you could do it, and whenever people needed help teaching others, you were there. It wasn't what you swore you'd never do; it was just enough to get by.

It still isn't what you want.

You count every cent you pour into the savings jar, a mason jar with a small photo on it. Your hammers are left with Popo and his new flame, and you're okay with being his first knowing he'll climb with people better for him than you are. Instead, with hammers gone, with your parka gone, you know you're still capable. In your mind, you're still on that stage. It angers you to think about, but you translate it into passion.

The city is the one you left to go back to Cirrus Ridge, and it's only fitting it's the one you go back to. Maybe you're still holding onto the idea of him- and from what you hear, only the Star Fox crew knows of his state, so it's out of your hands. More tangibly, some mornings take you on a walk past where you used to live, the boarding house for the tournament. You remember walking through the halls, you remember the nesting rooms, you remember your own room, you especially remember the grand hall, but most of all, you remember the arena.

It's closer than you think.

Sometimes you still dance when you're on your own, but it always turns into fighting moves that, much like dancing, much like the songs in your head, never go away.

Only a couple hundred dollars more, and maybe you can afford a trainer.


	36. Chapter 37

You've almost saved enough when you hear a knock on your door. As usual, you're a little surprised that it doesn't come off the hinges. You want to find a weapon to bring with you- this apartment isn't without its share of shouting matches and hallway fights just outside the door. You settle for yourself, hearing the door knock again, just hard enough to be heard but never more than courteous. You imagine this person isn't from around here if they're knocking like that.

You turn the TV off and let the microwave run as you go to answer the door.

"Hellome?" you blurt.

Fox looks back at you from outside the door. His hair's still growing and now it's more even. He doesn't have his kids or wife with him, which somehow serve to make him look older, more exhausted. You wonder how long you've been gone, because he looks fourteen years older.

You start with "Can I help you?" but by the time you finish you sound more stunned.

He looks at you with a nod, not even forcing a smile. This somehow scares you further.

"Please say something or I'm slamming the door," you demand.

After a second, still looking at not much in particular, he finally does.

"Come with me."

You don't even have words for him, but you let the microwave run and walk out with him- skirt, tank top, flip flops, and all.


	37. Chapter 38

On your way over, you want to ask. You're in the passenger seat of the car, not the backseat, even though Fox feels old enough to be your father. This must mean he sees you as an equal in some regard, but everything you want to say doesn't make its way out. You're only honest at the worst possible times, it seems.

You can't imagine why someone would want to see you. Anyone at all. You're the one who left for some amount of time. You've been back, almost as long, just as uneventful- only vaguely pleasant, far too disconnected. You were just starting to let go, to get on with your life. It all seems too far away.

Why does everyone want you to be there? What's this important? Why does anyone care? You used to hate when no one would look at you, but everyone's eyes being on you doesn't feel any better.

You know what you want to ask, but when Fox looks at you during a red light, you clumsily ask "How did you all find me?"

"We know these things," he says absently, like this isn't his first time grabbing a random person from a street he won't remember.

Part of you wishes he didn't know.


	38. Chapter 39

"We'll let the hospital keep in touch," wheezes the portly man next to the telephone, who already sounds way too exhausted- maybe that's just his voice. Everyone seems to understand him and trust him without a hitch- for all you know he could be their communications officer. You're so fascinated by these people you don't know well enough that it keeps your mind off of what's to come- barely.

Fox steals a glance at you, to let you know you're still with them. You're not sure you are okay with the idea yet, but at least having an entire militia for-hire to protect you for free isn't half-bad. Protect you from what, you can't say- it may not exist- but at least there's a safeguard.

If they could protect you from your own fears, that'd be great.

Fox informs you sporadically of the situation- between his young kid being too much to avoid and the information processed from his teammates, he's a busy man, but still makes time for you. You know that this is make-or-break. He might wake up, he might be worse than before, he might not be awake for long, he might not wake up at all. You know that he's going to be- hopefully- awake in some capacity, but he's been in a coma that only recently has become medically induced while they remove the wreckage and fix the damage in ways described that make your stomach churn.

You have no idea how one wakes up from a coma when you can barely right yourself from a bad dream. You sleep amazingly well that night, however, because at least you're going to know whether this is the end or the beginning.

At least it's concrete.


	39. Chapter 40

You fall in single file with everyone else into the room. You watch everyone else interact with him. You listen to the words said, you feel the crunch of every member that matters into the room. Codenames fly like they're real names, except for everyone's kids- they're never going to see a fake name as long as they live. You listen in on conversations you feel like you're eavesdropping on, but they're comforting in their own right. Falco came off as someone who didn't have their family, kind of like you- how he has such amazing friends is beyond you.

Eventually, they start to file out. You've been quiet the entire time, but as Fox kisses his best friend on the brow, you wonder if they're more brothers than they seem. As Fox leaves, you reach for his hand, soft and awkward but there nonetheless. He looks back at you, and you thank him. The tears in his eyes say everything, so you let him go.

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe in and out, hand outstretched.

He takes it, and you smile.


	40. Chapter 41

After another visit or two, he finally starts talking. The second he does, you start to laugh.

"Good match," he says, groaning, stretching as much as he can.

You giggle, happy to hear him say something that sounds like him. It takes you two minutes of silence for you to remember what he's talking about.

"Oh. Ohh, oh oh oh."

He laughs, quietly, like he's giving up a few seconds of breath to do it. You feel a little bad, but you don't rest on it, flashing up two fingers.

"Second?" he asks, and you nod.

"Whatever," he says, eyes rolling. "You're number one to me, Nattie."

You reach for his arm again. As tired as he is, he doesn't reach back, but by the way he's grinning when you hold him like that, it means something. You can see the old Falco back by the way he's smiling like that. Somewhere between thinking he deserves this and thinking that this is too amazing to be happening. The hair is still gone, half of his body is still unseen and probably for the best that way, and he looks more exhausted than the man you learned to dance with.

He's still there.

Maybe having someone like you isn't so bad after all.


	41. Chapter 42

One day you're waiting for the doctors to let you in to see him. A few other Star Fox members are there, including Fox sans his kid and wife. Fox is sitting next to you and talking with the green-haired man and the portly wheezer, whom you now know to be Slippy and Peppy. As they talk about the missions that don't involve hospital stays, you try to keep from looking interested. You succeed the wrong way, and look enthralled. You even gasp a time or two. Peppy notices and laughs, amazed that it interests someone.

Fox turns to you. "I didn't face you," he admits. "I know Wolf did-"

"We _know_ Wolf did!" interrupts Slippy with a laugh that is starting to become endearingly obnoxious rather than regular brand obnoxious.

Fox chuckles. "Yeah, Wolf faced off with you guys. I think I lost track at the end though."

"I get that." Conversations are still mundane but at least they're starting to matter more, like there's meaning within the meaning.

Fox nods and claps your shoulder. "Still want to know how you placed."

People will always ask about that, and you're never going to be quite happy to inform them, but holding up two fingers gets easier by the day. You know Fox is the prior season's champ, which doesn't make it easier, but you still manage. A flash of recognition hits Peppy, but he keeps it to himself.

"That's pretty amazing," Fox says. You let him compliment you even though you don't believe it. With a little hesitation, he adds "That's how Falco did last tournament. Second's a pretty great number to end up as, especially out of thirty-eight."

You take the compliment again, and this time it feels like it means something.

"You mean you didn't see?" Peppy finally bursts. "I know I saw it. Every TV in the hospital was airing it!"

"Not all of us use our time here to watch TV!" Slippy fires back, but Peppy shoves him forward as a response, laughing.

"What'd you see?" Fox asks, smirking.

"Right at the end of the last match," Peppy remarks. "I think right around when Meta won, the guy climber-"

"Popo," you clarify, no longer able to ignore that he was a part of you.

"That guy," Peppy corrects. "He was trying to find his way to the edge, and this Meta guy, he just stands there, like nothing can happen…"

You remember the moment, and you close your eyes, averse to the feeling of being left behind.

"And she freaking _smacks_ him!"

Peppy claps in excitement, and you can't figure out if Fox or you sit up sharply first. Fox has his hand on the arm of the waiting room chair and asks "Did that really happen?"

"I'm not imagining it!" Peppy insists. "I'm sure she can tell you herself!"

Fox gives you a look, one of amusement, interest, and mute admiration. Very rarely is it that someone a champion would give a runner up that look, but you're proud of it.

"Yep," he says, not needing to ask. "That happened."

You smile, eyes closed. Part of you wishes you'd brought a place to hide, but at least this is being talked about positively. At least people talk about you like you earned it. Hell, for the first time, you feel like you have.

"You're gonna need a trainer for next time," Fox says, like this is the first time he's had something to do. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head, but before you can mention the saved up jar that's almost been filled, maybe has by now, he hands you a card. Just like the last one, it's got the name of the person on it.

"Is this just a Star Fox thing?" you ask innocently, and Peppy guffaws again.

"Keep me in mind," Fox says with a grin.

You place the card under your tank top strap, where it sticks out but isn't going to go anywhere. You smile and thank Fox for it. He shakes your hand, and even though you barely return it, you're there.

Maybe next time you'll kick some ass for good.


	42. Chapter 43

His cane isn't doing him as much good as you are, and he's already told you he hates how old the cane makes him feel. You aren't fond of reminders that shove it in your face how different in age you are, but even now he isn't restrained by it. You can't decide if he's emotionally twenty or fifty yet. You just know he's emotionally enough.

"You steady?" you ask.

Falco holds your shoulder- this time needing you as much as you needed him. Somehow, without words, you know it's more than as a partner in whatever life has ahead- the dancing, the fighting, the stuff in between. It's bigger than that. It's why you stayed.

"Steady as I'll ever be."

The two of you take quiet steps outside of the hospital. He's wearing one military leg, and the other's so damaged its new end is above the knee, waiting for a new accomplice as the two of you hobble out together. You're carrying a backpack that, as full as it might seem, is lighter than what you carried on most mountain climbing trips. You're okay with that. You can do it. It's the emotional baggage that's weighing you down, but it always has, and you figure that's part of being human.

You figure you can carry that too.


End file.
